


Simbelmynë

by raiyana



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gen, Mention:Child Abuse, The Oath of Eorl, The Éothéod, Worldbuilding, cultures and customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The death of his father in Eorl's sixteenth year makes him chief of his people.But this is the story of how the boy-chief becomes the man who will one day found a Kingdom and pass into the legends of his decendants.And the women who help him.
Relationships: Eorl the Young/Ámóda(OFC)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya (Narya_Flame)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).



> Much gratitude to Azh & Bunn for being very helpful betas :D

“You killed my father…” Ámóda whispered the words into the sunset, her arms wrapped tight around her middle though the day was still warm. Her spine – ever straight, even when she could not hide the bruised cheek a drunken fist had left on her – was more stiff than he had ever known it before, and Eorl did not dare to touch her. “How can I love you?”

“He laid hands on you,” he replied softly, though he knew the defence was paltry in her ears. “I could not stand by…” He had watched her grow as he did, watched her shoulder the burden of a household too young, watched her bear the rage of her sire without hope of change.

He had watched, too weak to stop it, left only the task of witnessing the tears and listening to her lamentations that Ragnulf did not mean to hurt her, did not mean to mar her face and body with ugly bruises that left her wincing through her daily tasks more often than not. He had watched, and left unspoken the rage he felt every time another blotch bloomed on fair skin, offering kind comfort and friendship while wishing that he was strong enough to stop Ragnulf ever laying a hand on her in anger again.

And one day he had been strong enough, strong despite the heavy weight of responsibility that had been thrust onto him with the death of Léod, strong… and reckless in his temper, as his mother had told him, clucking her tongue as she cleaned his wounds afterwards.

He only half remembered doing it, lost to a red sea of rage as he watched Ragnulf drag her off her horse, shouting accusations and curses all the while Ámóda fought to release herself from his grip, crying in pain.

But, for once, the fist Ranulf swung caught in Eorl’s palm instead of her ribs.

And then he remembered standing over the corpse, the long hunting dagger red with blood that dripped onto his brown boot, and Ragnulf was staring up at the sky but seeing nothing.

For a moment, all had been silence, and the satisfaction of knowing there would be no more tears.

But then she screamed, and there were tears as she threw herself onto the body, crying out for the return of one whose spirit had fled to the halls of their ancestors just moments earlier.

Screaming at him, calling him a murderer, recoiling as he tried to offer her comfort as he always did, slapping his hands away until his mother intervened, wrapping her arms around Ámóda’s shoulders.

He had been left to stare after them, feeling again the heavy weight of the blade – slender and sharp – as it had pierced soft flesh and harder muscles, leading his hand almost thoughtlessly as it drank its fill, spilling heart’s blood over his hands until the heart stopped.

Eorl wondered if it was his own heart he’d stopped that day, the heart that beat not in his breast but in hers, beat in the heart that had been his since before either of them knew what love was, as his own had been hers.

“I lo-” he tried, helplessly, though the words died in his throat. How could he burden her with that confession spoken aloud for the first time – at a time like this? Even as an explanation for why he had feared for her life, realising just how possessive Ragnulf truly was over his beautiful daughter?

_I meant to free you when I offered to take you away from him, not put you in danger._

But what he had once intended mattered little, he knew, when faced with the enormity of the grief he saw in her eyes.

“ _You killed my father!_ ” she screamed, whirling around to face him, helpless rage in her fists as they pounded against his chest. “You killed my father, Eorl, _you killed him_!”

“I know,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her as the dam broke, feeling his shirt grow damp with tears as she continued to struggle, surrendering to the grief against him as she had done before that day, trusting in his strength to hold her up, to keep her together.

“ _You killed my father!_ ” she wept, and her fists lay quiet upon his breast now. But it was different now, and Eorl did not think holding her like this would ever be the same again. This time, _he_ was the one who had caused her tears, not the sire she had always claimed to hate. “ _How can I love you?_ ”

He had not thought she would mourn Ragnulf so, and as Ámóda wept in his arms, Eorl knew that there would be no peace for them now, that what he had hoped for since before he took up the mantle of chief to the éothéod would not now come to pass, and Ámóda would not take his mother’s role when she passed. “I do not know,” Eorl whispered into her grain-gold hair, breathing in the soft smell of it; the smell of Ámóda, his to hold for the last time, he knew. “I do not know, min swéte.”


	2. Chapter 2

She was part of his household, now, and yet so far removed from him that Eorl had to look away every time their paths crossed. Ámóda’s weregild for the death of her father at his hands would be paid in time, not coin, and Anfloga had taken her in with a grace and support that humbled him more than her stern reprisals in the aftermath of that day had. She had always been fond of Ámóda, he knew, inviting her to spend most of her days in Anfloga’s company.

Eorl resented that, mourning the loss of his dearest friend as well as his unrequited love every time Ámóda’s gaze skated blankly past him, every time her words fell flat or stilted from her lips on the few occasions he did manage to speak to her.

Instead, he had taken to avoiding her presence, riding out with Felaróf whenever possible, losing himself in games of war and skill with his fellow warriors and trying to forget the words Ragnulf had shouted before he could speak no more.

He had even stopped visiting with his mother in her solar, knowing that Ámóda would be among the ladies gathered there, chatting with each other as beautiful patterns grew beneath sharp needles. 

And life continued all through the dark of winter.

* * *

“I ask your leave to join the ranks of shieldmaidens,” Ámóda said clearly, kneeling before him where he sat by the fire on the first night of the summer migration, interrupting Folcwine’s tale of a wily fox hunt.

Eorl froze.

Whatever he had expected her to do after the death of her father… becoming a maiden warrior was not one of them.

“You wish to live the life of a shieldmaiden?” he asked; Ámóda – though named for one of the heroines of legend – had never shown interest in the sword or spear, never spoken of a desire to be a protector of their people in such a way.

And he knew what she was doing now.

 _How can I love you?_ She had asked him that, and he had no good answer, but if he gave her leave to join the rank of women warriors as she asked him now, it would spell the end of his still-held desire to make her his wife, to have her rule beside him through all his years.

Eorl swallowed the lump in his throat. _I killed our love before it could bloom,_ he thought, seeing the stranger grief had carved from her familiar features, hardened in ways even Ragnulf’s worst rages had never managed, and felt sick at what he had done to her.

“It is my wish to serve my chief and my people,” Ámóda said, and the stubborn set of her shoulders was one he knew only too well. “This is how I can offer my strength to them.”

“If that is your wish,” he whispered, clearing his throat to banish the sorrow from his voice. “If it is your wish to take up the spear and shield, Ámóda Hildasdaughter,” he managed, trying not to choke on the words as they left his throat, “then I grant you my blessing as your chief.”

He did not look back at her as he left the fire, returning to the tent that was too big for just him, yet shared by no other.

* * *

Ámóda had snuck away from the loom for a moment, and Eorl felt happy when she lay back in the long grass beside him, watching the clouds pass swiftly overhead, shaped into marvellous castles like the southern merchants spoke of, and herds of brilliantly white horses.

“Father has gone to tame his King of Horses,” Eorl said, pointing up at one cloud that seemed particularly horse-like. “He says he will name him Felaróf and ride him for all time.” The white foal that Léod had captured a few years earlier had grown into a wild and proud stallion, almost strong enough to start training for the saddle of a warrior in armour; in a few years more, he might sire a whole line of horses as strong and beautiful as he was. Léod had seen him first, but everyone agreed that he was a horse out of legends, an elf-horse by blood for sure.

“A King of Horses for the Chief of the Éothéod,” Ámóda nodded drowsily, putting her head on his shoulder when Eorl lifted his arm, bringing it down to hold her close. “Suitable.” She yawned, taking up the space along his side as though she was meant to be there and always had been.

Eorl smiled to himself, putting his free arm under his head and watched the clouds pass in the skies as Ámóda dozed beside him.

 _I wish that the ancestors grant we will always be like this_ , he thought, holding her a little closer. _And grant me courage to ask her to be mine when the time is right for it._ It never paid to be rude when asking for the guidance of those who had come before, his mother told him, nor to ask for things too specific – a nudge here or there, or a sudden flame of bravery; those things the ancestors in their halls might bestow, but no more. He still remembered her long lecture when at the age of six winters she had caught him asking the tapestry that had been made to capture his grandfather’s stern visage if he could please make Ragnulf fall off his horse.

He still hoped that grandfather Cenric would some day do it, would punish Ragnulf for all the times he’d left Ámóda limping through their camp, claiming that she had fallen from her mare even though most everyone knew that it was his fists that caused her bruises.

“What are you thinking about?” Ámóda asked quietly, tracing the intricate curves of the embroidered horses that his mother had stitched along the neckline of his tunic and down over his chest; a simplified version of his father’s mantle that Eorl had worn since he left the softness of boyhood behind and began to train at weapons.

“How the ancestors influence our lives,” Eorl admitted, trying to ignore the light tickle and pretend that Ámóda’s gently curious touch wouldn’t return in his dreams much less innocently than it felt now. Bending his legs might not hide everything, but the inconvenient reaction he often had to her presence would be less noticeable, at least.

“I hope mother is happier there,” Ámóda sighed. “Though I think she has no more hold over our lives now than when she lived. If I were her…. I would be too busy enjoying myself to think on my living husband.”

“I should hope that would depend on the husband,” Eorl teased gently. If he had been in Hilda’s place, wed to a man like Ragnulf, he too might have wished to ignore him from the beyond.

Ámóda laughed, nodding against his chest. “So it would,” she murmured.

“I think she would think of you, though,” he added, “aiding her strong-willed daughter as she might best be able.”

“A nice thought, Eorl,” Ámóda agreed, though he knew her well enough to recognise when she didn’t believe her own words.

He, too, carried the memory of a very gravid Hilda screaming at her young daughter that she was the reason Hilda had been trapped with Ragnulf, after all.

Perhaps it was better if Hilda had naught to say to either of the two she left behind, focusing her energy on the small life that abandoned the world alongside her instead.

“Eorl!”

Eorl had never heard his mother scream his name so, sitting up at once to stare back towards the camp.

“Eorl!” Anfloga called again, and Eorl’s heart sank at the sound of grief in her voice.

“No…” he whispered, staggering to his feet, Ámóda’s hand clenched tight in his own. “No!”

“Eorl…” Ámóda whispered, squeezing his hand, lending him her strength when his legs threatened to fold beneath him at the sight of his mother’s bloodstained skirts, the tears streaming down her sweet face. “Eorl, I’m so sorry.”

He saw it too, in that moment, saw the cloak that old Cyneburga carried, the mantle that had covered Cenric’s shoulders and then laid over Léod’s when he died, streaming down from aged hands.

His father’s mantle.

“No…” he repeated, knowing but not knowing what must have happened. “Not now – not yet, not-”

Ámóda’s hands were warm around his, and Eorl clung to her.

“Léod is dead, my son,” Anfloga said, her voice breaking on the words, her face blurred by his own tears.

“On the death of a chief, the mantle must pass,” Cyneburga intoned, and Eorl felt Ámóda take half a step away, her grip loosening until his tightened in despair. He felt more than saw her stand with him, her hands so warm around his that he thought she might be able to chase away the sudden chill of his heart.

And then the mantle fell on his shoulders, the weight too much to bear, and he was kneeling before his mother, feeling her hand gently resting against his cheek as Cyneburga’s aged voice spoke ancient words over him, passing the responsibility of caring for their people onto him with the blessings of all ancestors.

“You have to stand, Eorl,” Ámóda whispered, and when he managed to get to his feet it was her hand beneath his elbow that let him, her strength that lifted his head to face the bright sun he could not see for the pain of the loss.

“Eorl, son of Léod, stands before you as chief!” Cyneburga called.

The response was a roar of sound that made no sense to Eorl’s ears, and he heard only the quiet weeping of Anfloga as he took the first step into his new life, wrapping his arm around his mother’s trembling shoulders and feeling surprised that she suddenly seemed smaller than him.

And still he held Ámóda’s hand.

 _I will be brave enough to have you for my wife_ , he promised her silently, promised the soul of his father on its way to the Ancestral Halls. _Do not worry for me, father,_ he added _, I shall hold up my duty._

* * *

Eorl woke suddenly, almost certain that he could still see Léod’s grin as he waved him away from the day’s weapons practice, claiming that this was the day he’d ride the best of all horses. 

The last time he’d seen Léod alive. 

_Do you watch over me, father?_ he asked the night, breathing in the soft scent of grass as he pushed aside the heavy canvas wall, drawing in the cool night air in great heaving lungfuls. _I am trying, I promise._

The dream clung to him, made him flex fingers that too easily remembered what it was to wrap around Amoda’s warm hand, and Eorl strode off into the night with a grunt of annoyance at his own foolishness. 

He was a grown man now, passed by three and twenty summers, and he should know better than to dwell on dreams of wishes never to be fulfilled. Ámóda had made her choice, a shieldmaiden of renown in her own right, and though he still called her a friend there was distance between them now, the distance of his hands dripping red with Ragnulf’s blood and a dream that died before it could come to pass.

And still Ámóda held his heart, and Eorl refused to accept his council’s pleas to wed. 

_Did you ever think your lessons in how to be a husband would cause me such pain, father?_ he asked the clear skies above, watching the stars shine among soft clouds as he leaned back in the long grass, feeling an echo of the dream haunt him as though Ámóda was meant to lie beside him once again. _I shall take a wife only if I can be true to her in all ways._


	3. Chapter 3

A brisk wind greeted Eorl as he made his way up to the top of the palisade wall that shielded Framburg, the fortified burg they had made in the shadow of the Grey Mountains that served as his home when he could not travel the plains with the herds. As always, his eyes were drawn firstly to the pale blooms covering the row of mounds that flanked the approach; Léod lay there, and his grandfather Cenric, too, and one day Eorl would join them in judging all who came to the gates of the Éothéod.

“You may care for Felaróf, Ceorl,” Eorl called. Behind him, Felaróf whickered in displeasure though Eorl knew he liked young Ceorl well enough; his squire would bribe him with apples, and though Felaróf _preferred_ Eorl’s own hand on the curry comb and brush, he would allow the boy to groom him.

The horse and its rider both had seen better days; the man slumped in his saddle and the horse looked gaunt and wild with hunger.

The rider did not respond beyond a weak gesture when hailed by the guard at the gate, passing the mounds of his father and grandfather so slowly it almost looked as though the horse might collapse with another step taken.

“Long has it been since we have heard messages from the southern lands,” Eorl murmured, raising his voice enough to call to the guards. “I will hear his words.”

Turning, he moved for the steps down from the top of the palisade walls, hearing the gate open to admit the stranger.

“You are troubled, Eorl Chief,” Ámóda, dressed in her riding leathers and mail and with the insignia of her rank proudly displayed on the pin of her green cloak, said, falling into step beside him though she carefully kept the distance that had grown between them over the past seven winters.

Eorl wondered if it would ever stop hurting, walking with her so close yet so far.

Or if he’d ever stop wishing that things were not as they were, and that he could claim her as easily as Felaróf might claim her mare come breeding time.

Still, he would take her friendship and infrequent companionship over the frozen tower of indifference she had been then.

“A rider comes from the south,” Eorl told her, shaking foolish dreams from his mind. “Though I have little hope for his message.”

“Another message from Marhin?” Ámóda asked. “I will lay odds on its contents being a slightly fairer version of ‘Mind your own lands and leave me be’.” They were both more than familiar with the master of those scattered groups – in name beholden to the line of Fram, and thus to Eorl, but in truth less than a distant cousin.

Eorl chuckled; he had offered Marhin and his people to move north, to shelter within the embrace of the two rivers where the éothéod were strong, but he had as little hope as Ámóda that the old horsemaster would accept it. “Marhin is too proud and stubborn to give up the old ways of rearing our horses,” he replied. “And unwilling to be tamed to my rule, I wager.”

“Felaróf does not seem to mind,” Ámóda teased, an echo of their old ease in her eyes before it disappeared like morning dew; Eorl wondered if he’d even glimpsed it, or if he was simply seeing things as he wished they were.

“Felaróf is wiser than many Men,” Eorl sighed. “I sometimes wish I might trade places with him – horses must be easier to rule.”

“You’d be allowed to bite malcontents, at least,” Ámóda chuckled, “but they are still people of our blood even if they’re living along the Langflood. I am not surprised. Marhin is a cantankerous backside of a donkey.”

“No one ever accused us of being a meek people,” Eorl agreed, trying not to smile at the insolence and knowing he’d failed when Ámóda’s grin grew wider and she bumped his shoulder with her own. “And no efforts will shift them closer, I fear, even should they all perish to the Balchot.”

“They could travel perfectly through the lands between rivers!” Ámóda exclaimed, gesturing towards the lands beyond the walls where their own herds would soon graze on the sweet summer grasses. “There, my riders at least would have a chance to defend them!”

“You know I agree with you,” Eorl soothed. “And so do the rest of my captains, for that matter.”

“And yet we cannot force them to come north,” Ámóda sighed, pulling off her gloves with her teeth. “As foolish as staying is.”

“Father used to say you can only lead a horse to water, yet not make it drink,” Eorl sighed. “Since I took on his mantle, I have come to realise those words pertain to more than just horses.”

“Your mantle, now, Eorl,” Ámóda said, offering him a respectful bow before disappearing in the direction of the shieldmaidens’ shared quarters.

Eorl tried not to look after her for more than a moment, though, as always, he admired the way she moved, confidence in every step; Ámóda now was a far cry from the Ámóda he had grown up with.

And Eorl still loved her more than any other.

* * *

“I saw you rode out with Ámóda, son,” Anfloga greeted, looking up from her needlework with a smile, the light streaming into her solar gleaming in the silver strands among her golden hair.

“A rider from the south approaching our walls, mother,” Eorl replied, carefully ignoring the way his mother’s smile dimmed whenever he ignored her mentions of Ámóda. “I should like your counsel when he arrives.”

“Then I will join you,” Anfloga offered, laying aside her hoop and nodding a farewell at the circle of ladies that usually accompanied her for the afternoon.

Eorl smiled. Ducking out of the solar, he went to his own room, laying aside the riding gear and mail he always wore when he left the burg, washing quickly in order to be in the hall when they brought the rider to him.

* * *

“Poor lad,” Anfloga muttered beneath her breath.

Eorl had to agree. The man staggered as if drunk, and the guards seemed more like potential nursemaids than warriors meant to protect their chief as they flanked him.

“I bring… I bring word,” the man tried, swaying on his feet. “…. Gondo…”

Eorl got to his feet, just as the man collapsed into the arms of one of his guards. Nodding at Cemdring, he gently tapped the stranger’s cheek, trying to revive him.

“Gondor, you say?” he asked, expecting little by way of answer as he turned towards Anfloga instead. “Mother, would you send for some broth, perhaps, and a bowl of porridge for our guest?”

“Stewar…” the man tried, fumbling with a pouch on his belt.

A stone fell out, making a soft thud against the rushes on the floor.

Eorl bent, picking it up to find that it had been carved with a symbol he dimly recognised. “The Steward of Gondor?” he murmured, tracing the pattern with his thumb.

“Help…” the stranger tried once more, leaning heavily on Cemdring and Háma. “Balchot… invasion…wain…riders…” his words slurred with tiredness but Eorl felt a cold hand run down his spine.

All éothéod children knew the stories of the wainriders and the brave acts of Marhwini the Rebel, and later of his many times over descendant Marhkan the Brave who fought against those who would have enslaved their people.

For a moment, his thoughts flew southwards, wishing and hoping that stubborn Marhin and his kin had found shelter beneath the eaves of the Forest; even the Wainriders would not dare trouble the Elvenking, he thought.

“…help…us…” the stranger managed, almost able to lift his hand enough to grasp at Eorl’s tunic before he fainted dead away.

“… the men of Gondor, call for aid,” Eorl said, moving back towards the head of the hall. Those gathered along the walls began to whisper amongst themselves, but Eorl held up a hand. “I shall take counsel with myself,” he said, “and decide what answer I will send.”

* * *

“His name is Borondir. He will live, though not easily,” Anfloga offered quietly, entering his room with a small fire that soon blazed in the brazier, offering both light and heat. “He hails from a family that traces its roots to our people, though they offered their service to the Stonelending King after the Rising – that is why he was chosen… alongside five others.”

“Much of our way of life was won with the aid of the South,” Eorl admitted, staring into the fire. In his hands, the small stone seemed so insignificant, the carvings merely a place to rest fidgeting fingers, and yet it carried a weight he was not sure he could carry. “An old friendship running back to the time of Fram Dragonsbane…” rubbing his thumb across the small carving – stoneland lettering, a C if he remembered Cyneburga’s teachings right, and an arrow coloured red below it.

“Red arrows for war,” Anfloga remarked, lighting a candle with her taper. “This Steward has not forgotten our ways, perhaps.”

“A portent of blood, yet I need none,” Eorl sighed, turning the stone over and over. Framburg and the land between rivers remained safe to them, but he knew it would not last; from the north, dark tidings of orcs raiding into the lowlands came more often, and from the south… well, the south was no safer, it seemed.

“The Ancestors will guide you,” Anfloga promised, squeezing his shoulder. “But the decision rests with you.”

“If I remain in the burg, and leave our scattered kindred to the chains of the wainriders,” Eorl pointed out, “I shall not dare stand before my father and _his_ father and Marhwini of legend and say that I have protected our people.”

“And yet… such distance lies between us, and those whom the Steward fear – and no peace, either, beneath the joining of the Langflood…”

“I cannot swear that any force I should muster would even make it past the golden wood,” Eorl agreed gruffly.

“I will not presume to advise you,” Anfloga sighed, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle hug. “This is a time of danger and war, no matter your choice.”

“If not you, who?” Eorl asked, though he didn’t give her a moment to answer; he knew too well what she would say. “If not us, _who_?”

“There are few allies for the steward of Gondor to call upon,” Anfloga admitted, resting her hand on his shoulder as she reached for the tallest of the sconces with her taper. “And though we are far, perhaps we are nearest in friendship… if not in kin.”

The light – Eorl had not realised that the dark had crept into the room – did not illuminate his thoughts, though it did glimmer in the flecks of reflective stone that hid among the darker stone of the Steward’s token.

 _A courageous ask – Cirion must be desperate indeed_ , he thought, turning it over in his fingers, _to send a messenger to call upon a centuries gone friendship is desperate indeed. Desperate in need._

And had the Stoninglanders not come to the aid of his own people in desperate need? Not altogether successfully, but uprisings could never be aught but messy, and they had learned since; the Shieldmaidens were proof of that. They had learned that teaching everyone the basics of defending themselves against an enemy, even those men most wished to defend, was necessary, and Eorl was proud of what Ámóda and her sisters achieved in defending their borders, fighting as well as or better than any man.

He looked up when the door closed behind Anfloga, for a moment tempted to call her back and ask her what he should do, as though he were still a colt, and not a chief these past ten and one winters.

Eorl sighed, setting the stone down on his table, meditatively stirring up the coals in the brazier that heated the still-cold spring nights.

 _Marhin might be a cantankerous mule_ , he thought, grinning to himself at the image, _but I will not let kinsmen be enslaved again. If I shall not stand beside Markhan the Brave, at least I shall hold my head high in his presence._

The odds of returning to Framburg alive were – for him – slim, he knew, but Eorl took some comfort in the thought that even if he fell, they would sing of him down the ages, as they now sang of Léod and his attempt to tame the King of Horses.

Getting to his feet, Eorl snuck out of his room, passing by the great hall – alive with chatter and speculation – unnoticed, escaping into the refreshing chill of the night air.

He headed for the stables, welcomed by a soft whinny from Felarof himself, who deigned to accept a small treat. “It will be war then, my friend,” he murmured into the white coat, brushing Felarof’s flank slowly as he tried to order his thoughts. “Unlike any you or I have known, I’m certain… and yet, I cannot do nothing, hide behind my walls and hope that the enemy to the south will not come so far north as to knock them down…” Leaning his forehead against the warm side of the horse, Eorl listened to the calm heartbeat, feeling his own reverberate in his chest. “What do you think?” he asked, expecting no answer and receiving none bar the soft way Felarof turned his head to lip at Eorl’s golden hair. He laughed for a moment, rubbing the pale forehead of the horse that had grown with him to manhood.

It was decided.

The Éothéod were going to war.

* * *

“You are very brave to have suffered so,” Ámóda said, a kind look on her face as Eorl returned to the main hall, her smile only for the young man who had faced too much peril delivering a desperate plea.

“It is kind of you to name me brave, my lady,” Borondir replied, blushing at her attention. “I myself consider it good fortune; I was spared the fate of my good friend and companion, and am now in the company of a lady most fair. What man should not think himself blessed to find himself a seat by your side?”

Eorl frowned.

Ámóda laughed brightly, pushing her thick braid over her shoulder; the clasp at the end caught the light, heavy silver etched with the symbol of Shieldmaidens as per her rank. Eorl knew the silver had once been her mother’s, melted down after her father’s death and turned into a token of her own strength and commitment to her sisters of the spear.

“A fair morn to you, Eorl,” Anfloga said calmly, looking over her shoulder at Eorl for a moment, “this is Borondir of Mundburg, descended from Fredláf who served with Markhan the Brave. We have offered him cream and grain in your name.”

“I thank you, mother,” Eorl replied, nodding to Anfloga who sat beside the messenger across from Ámóda. Emulating her calm formality, he added, “The kindness of the Ladies of Framburg is ever an inspiration to all.”

“My – my lord!” Borondir squeaked, staggering to his feet as he barely managed to save his cup of smallbeer from toppling over in his haste to bow; not in the Mundburg style, Eorl noted, but in the ways of his own people. Whether a ploy or a genuine habit, it was at least slightly warming. “I am come from Gondor, from the court of the Steward Cirion.”

His voice bore traces of the Stonelending tongue, but Eorl had to credit him some for the attempt; Borondir was not used to the shape of his words, but he was an earnest man at heart, Eorl recognised.

“Borondir has been telling us such terrible news from the southern reaches,” Ámóda said. “The road was worse than Marhin would have had us think in his last reports. He has suffered much hardship since leaving Mundburg.”

Borondir gave her a sweet smile for that, too.

Coming to a stop behind Ámóda, Eorl did his best not to glare at the Gondorian. “A storyteller now, more than a half-dead soldier?” he asked. “This Steward of Mundburg sends strange messengers.”

And he did not like his small infatuation with Ámóda one bit.

“And you have come to Framburg, seat of Eorl, son of Léod,” Eorl replied curtly. “I will hear the Steward’s words from your mouth.”

“I bring word that by our ancient friendship, Cirion the Steward of Gondor asks for aid.” Borondir looked almost ill with nerves, clearing his throat a few times, but he managed to get the words flowing; the ease of a phrase learned by heart flowed from him. “The Balchoth – wainriders of old – invade the Northlands of Calenardhon, slaying all in their path, and destroy your kin in the South. Help us!”

In the pocket of his shirt, Eorl felt the weight of the small stone inscribed with Steward Cirion’s rune, the weight of the decision he had already made, carrying the history of his people and their enemies forward into this new time.

Passing Ámóda’s seat on the bench, Eorl walked slowly to the head of the hall, standing a moment before the seat where he had watched Léod think over the most weighty of issues; the seat he, himself, had used to declare his decisions for all the Éothéod to hear.

As he would this one.

Taking a deep breath, he turned, looking over the hall that had filled with those of his people whose work did not involve caring for animals that needed to be fed. The news of the messenger had run through the burg like unchecked wildfire, and he knew they had all come to hear him speak, aye or nay as might be.

“I will come.”

The words rang out, echoing in the sudden hush of the great hall.

“If the Mundburg falls, whither shall we flee from the Darkness?”

None had another path to offer, though he would have expected nothing less; the Éothéod might not all agree with his choices, but it was not in them to argue against him before a stranger. Eorl waved Borondir to stand once more, the one here who had any claim to the words of the Steward and the colours of his banner.

“I will answer the call of war,” he repeated, raising the spear that had been Léod’s over his head, letting his gaze run from one side of the hall to the other, seeing the grim determination on the faces of people he called kin and subject both. Ámóda’s face was set in steely determination, her hand fisted tightly in the long skirts of her blue dress, and she was the one he saw nod when he asked the words that held more than one meaning for any éothéod. “Will you ride with me?”

This time the response was a roar of sound as dagger-hilts met the heavy wood of tables and shields, lasting until he hit the butt of his own spear against the ground thrice.

The Éothéod would ride.

Turning his eyes back to Borondir – Anfloga had nudged him into motion, he thought – Eorl waited until the man was standing before him, repeating his words.

His oath.

“I will come.”

Then he took Borondir's hand in token of the promise.


	4. Epilogue

“It is quite a sight,” Ámóda said, though she did not look to see him stand by her. Eorl wondered if she had spotted him moving towards the walls where she stood, her green cloak playfully billowing with the wind that ruffled his hair, a red fox pelt wrapped around her shoulders for protection against the cold mountain wind.

“Six tens éoreds,” Eorl said, looking over the plain that was dotted with campfires as far as the eye could see. “A mighty éohére.”

“We are strong in men and horses,” Ámóda nodded. “May it serve us well.”

“You do not wish to take part in the Blessing of the Riders?” Eorl asked her, suddenly nervous. He knew she had come to him before, had shared the pleasure of her body with him as part of the ancient ritual of the Blessing; even shieldmaidens going to war sought to reaffirm their spirit’s connection to their people this way.

They never spoke of those nights, of starlit touches and the feel of fire in the blood, but it was Ámóda he looked for on nights such as this, wishing to lose himself in her strength, fill his mouth and memory with the taste of her and fall asleep to dreams so painfully peaceful he felt sorrowed in the morning when she would sneak off without a word.

Leaving him to feel the barest echo of her lips on his before she disappeared into the morning mist.

But this time she had not come to him, and he had no desire to fend off the willing advances of other, lesser women in his estimation, and so he had abandoned the Great Hall, snuck off like a lovelorn youth in search of her, finding her limned in torchlight where she stood upon the wall, staring out at the sea of men and horses he meant to lead to an uncertain war come morning.

“I…” Ámóda shook her head slightly. “Why do you ask me this, Eorl?”

“Who else?” he retorted, gesturing at the well-lit hall behind them, snatches of lively music floating in the air alongside low giggles and soft moans as couples split off into the night, enjoying one last intimate revelry before the march. “Who else should I ask, but you?”

“I-” Ámóda turned, torchlight flickering gold over her loose hair. For a moment, she bit her lip, indecisive, but then her face cleared in resolve, lifting her hand slowly until her palm rested upon his breast, feeling his heart beat firmly beneath the soft linen tunic.

Eorl caught her hand gently, pressing it flat against his chest.

“It beats for you,” he offered hoarsely.

Ámóda startled, but she did not pull her hand from his grip, staring into his eyes with sudden fear.

“You do not speak of this now, Eorl,” she told him, not unkindly, closing her eyes for a moment to steel herself. “Not like this, please. Not like it will be the last night I see you glow in the light of torches – _I cannot bear that!_ ” The last words were almost a scream, her fingers curling into his tunic, her other hand letting go of her cloak’s folds to grip his shoulder. “Do not speak to me as though you go to war to die.”

“No man knows his end, Ámóda,” Eorl whispered gently. “And I-”

“No!” she replied, tightening her grip. “I will not hear it, Eorl, I cannot.”

“You’re-”

“ _I cannot lose you!_ ” she said, the words nearly wrenched from her throat. “Don’t you dare do this to me, Eorl Léodsson!”

“Do you think I could bear to lose you?” Eorl asked, catching her chin in his free hand. “I am not alone in going to war, Ámóda!” He softened, sighing at himself as he thumbed an angry tear from her cheek. “I wish – nay, I _need_ , to say this to you, and I think… I think you need to hear it, too.”

Ámóda said nothing, but her eyes never wavered, not did her fingers release him.

“I love you,” Eorl whispered, soft as a kiss she’d never had from him, as nervous as if he were still that boy of five and ten summers realising that when he saw his future it was always _her_ … and finding courage in the thought. “Long have I kept my silence, but if you would have me, I should like to ask for you hand bound with mine, to have you be my strength and my heart, and offer you mine in return.”

“Eorl, I-” Ámóda faltered, those expressive green eyes filled with pain before they fell shut as she drew in a deep breath. “You ki-”

“I know!” Eorl exclaimed, releasing her hand to run his own through his hair in frustration. “I killed Ragnulf – and if it cost me you, still I would do it over again, Ámóda, I would wish always to protect you from harm, even as I know you have learned to protect yourself!” The sudden anger left him as swiftly as it had arrived, leaving him only tired and heartsore. “I am not strong enough to see you harmed and do nothing – I could not bear it; have I not made laws against men such as Ragnulf in hope that no other might suffer as you did in childhood?”

Ámóda whispered, her thumb rubbing slowly over the fabric of his tunic. “I was not strong enough to stand against even my own father, how could I be strong enough to stand with you as your wife, to be _your_ strength?”

“Because you always have,” Eorl replied softly, cupping her face in his hands. “It was your strength that let me stand when they buried my father, your strength that allowed me to speak my own thoughts against the council of Elders when I was still so young they considered me barely more than a foal, your strength – Ámóda you have always been my most steadfast friend and support.” Pressing his forehead against hers, Eorl sighed. “How can you not know that?”

“’How can I love you?’” Ámóda whispered, the hand on his shoulder changing from grip to gentle caress as she moved it to his jaw. “Do you remember I asked you that once?”

Eorl nodded silently.

Beneath Ámóda’s fingers, his heart pounded.

“I think…” she tried nervously, wetting her lips with her tongue. “I think the answer is ‘how can I not love you’, Eorl.” He could feel her throat move around a hard swallow against the heel of his hands, but Eorl felt frozen to the spot, too terrified to move lest she fall into silence. “I’ve… I’ve tried,” Ámóda whispered, the words washing over his lips on mead-scented breath. “I thought – _Béma help me, Eorl, how can I love the man who murdered my own father more than any other?_ ”

“I love you,” Eorl whispered, though he knew it wasn’t a helpful response, and still he felt too elated to keep silent. If Ámóda loved him, the rest would work out, he knew.

“Ancestors forgive me,” Ámóda sighed softly, “but I love you, too.”


End file.
